


The Words That Kill

by 80pt_mongolian (Emerald_Violince)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson is Robin, Family, Female Bruce, Genderbending, Young Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:46:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_Violince/pseuds/80pt_mongolian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had only been the inky, translucent night and a wrench before. Now, it had been the inky, translucent night, a wrench, and a bat. Jason Todd was a street kid: he didn't fear the things that went bump in the night, until he did. </p><p>A new twist on the sad tale of Jason Todd.</p><p>(Note: Batman is a woman, because why not?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

Jason Todd had never been shy about who he was: the son of an addict and a criminal, he didn’t have anything more to hide than the clothes that hung so loftily off of his skinny, bereft shoulders. And the occasional lost-but-not-found gun. He was a street kid. He didn’t fear the night, or the things that lurked within it. He was a meaningless life, a droplet in the rushing river that was Gotham. His nightlight childhood was a joke to the daytime dallies, the service workers that pledged their allegiance to the failing cause of preadolescent wellbeing. 

So, when the smooth lines of Gotham’s most notorious crime-fighter’s ride happened upon his alley, there was no question within the young boy what his course of action would be: steal the wheels off of the Batmobile. Not only would it buy him a month’s worth of grub, but it would also give him some street cred with the underbelly’s higher ups, leaving him with some leverage to get them off of his back. Who would mess with the kid who had enough guts to jack the tires off of the Batman’s ride? Nobody, that’s who. 

Jason’s mind had raced; he would only have a few minutes get the job done, the looming arrival of Batman a reasonable cause for the growing anxiety in his stomach. His eyes had darted back and forth, as his hands had deftly unlatched the hubcap, and slowly, but precisely started to undo the rivets that held the wheel in place. To think, to image, Jason Todd, the boy wonder who stole the wheels off of the Batmobile. Just one more nudge, and the last of the rivets would be off, and he would be home free…or rather, he would have been home free, if it hadn’t been from the unexpected silence that had seemingly draped itself upon the alley: a silence that was unnatural in the depth of the night. The shadow that had crawled up the wall had been unfamiliar, but not unforgotten in the grand scheme of things. Jason had frozen, his racing mind, crashing into a blaze of fury that would put the notion of hellfire to shame. He had been caught red handed, in the act: he had been caught by the infamous Batman. Jason knew he was screwed: nobody would come looking for a street rat, nobody cared if he just up and disappeared, so, as the shadow grew closer, Jason’s impulses to run, to survive grew stronger until, finally, he picked up his wrench and spun around, fear be damned. 

What he found though, was not the fight he had expected. The man was not a man: the stature of the height, the depth of the hip, the structure of the muscle, it was all wrong. The Batman was not a Batman: the woman had a smirk on her face, reminiscent of a cat that’d found a new toy to chase around. A scoff escaped her lips as Jason raised the bar higher, well aware of the shaking in his upper arms. 

“I ain’t afraid of you, demon woman!” He hissed, a reflex in its own right. The woman only continued to creep closer, the same grin plastered upon her face. He didn’t fear her less, just because she was a woman didn’t make her any less dangerous. He’d seen what woman could do to men, in their moments of weakness, and he knew that in this situation, where he’d already been caught doing the obvious, there weren’t many scenarios where he ended up as he came in. As she came closer, he moved backwards, until, finally, he crashed into the Batmobile, which had been quietly sitting behind him, forgotten. Jason lashed out as his legs fell out from underneath him, a knee-jerk reaction. Before he knew what had happen, the wrench was out of his hands, and he had been safely deposited onto the ground, from which he stared up at the Batwoman from. Her eyes narrowed, but still kept their mirth. 

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to steal, hon?” She crooned out, a low reverberating noise meant to chastise rather than scare. Jason was surprised at the depth of her voice: it was characteristically low, deep, but smooth. She now held the wrench in her hands, curled protectively out of the young boy’s reach, tucked slightly into the crook of her cape. His tongue caught in his throat as she ground out a laugh. 

“…No, my momma’s dead, just like the rest of ‘em.” He said slowly, measuring the words against his mouth, unsure of his body to betray his false confidence cloaked with his true fear. She analyzed him for moment, decades for sure: her deep, lapis eyes reminded him of the murky depths of the bay, the graveyard of a thousand nameless crooks, and the collateral of a many crime war. He wished she would go away, leave him to his unstable peace in the darkness, but that hadn’t ever been a choice, had it? No, he had opened the door himself, and he had walked himself inside. 

“Interesting,” she had said, a mischievous flash in her otherwise dead eyes. Jason had feared the prosecution of the vigilante, the justice of the night walker, the teeth of the Bat, but out of all the scenarios his head had fast-tracked a couple of a million times, he eyes couldn’t comprehend that motion of the creature’s shadow moving past him, a inky blackness passing him; the Batmobile rumbled to life behind him. The woman turned, a sly smile crawling across her face, as she confidently ground out, “I’ll be seeing you, kid.” 

Even after the machine was gone, even after the glowing red lights had lingering away, Jason Todd had stood, dumb founded at his luck, his misplaced fortune. The woman had taken his wrench, but had left him with his life unscathed. Yes, he was just a street kid, but all street kids were gun folder and unsuspecting messengers for the thugs of the underground. His hands were sweating, and he was pretty sure he was shaking, but the feeling was unforgettable: the feeling of cheating death. It grew throughout him until, he himself couldn’t tell if it was the fear that coerced his laughter, or just the fact of the matter that Batman had let him go. 

Jason Todd knew he was marked now, that he would never be the same Jason Todd, son-of-an-addict-and-criminal again, no, he was marked for greatness. When the inky shadow reappeared at his doorstep a few days, later, a skewed proposition in hand, the only thing he could say, the only thing he would say was yes.


	2. A Mysterious Stanger

Chords of rain fell from the silhouetted Wayne mansion, the deep rumbling of thunder opening the silence of the night. The mansion, in all of its grandiosity, hid under the ancestral trees of the property, much like the residents inside. Jason Todd stared through the windows of the manor, hesitantly tracing raindrops with his eyes. In the short time he had been there, only a few weeks since Batwoman had wisped him off from his Crime Alley shed, Jason had found a slow rhythm to life which mostly was composed of three things: hiding from Ruth Wayne, hiding from Alfred Pennyworth, and of course, hiding from Richard Grayson. Richard, or Dick, as he preferred to be called, had certainly let Jason know that he wasn’t welcome in his home. As soon as Miss Wayne had crossed the threshold of the entryway with young Jason Todd in slow pursuit, Dick had scoffed, immediately commenting on how he didn’t trust Jason grubby hands to keep off of the more valuable items in the house, implying that the Batwoman’s rehabilitation “project” wouldn’t last long. Miss Wayne had given a sharp eye to Dick, who had in turn shrugged and slinked away: Jason hadn’t forgotten the warm, comforting hand that had been placed tentatively on his shoulder afterwards. 

While Dick wasn’t home often, due to school, when he was at the mansion, he made sure to make Jason feel as stiff as possible: he would casually forget to set the table for three, and would instead leave the mahogany hall with two chairs and two plates, placed face to face. And when Jason had failed to reach the linens at the top of the shelf in his temporary room, Dick’s grazing eye had passed by him without pause, leaving Jason to sit and wait, uselessly, until Alfred finally realized that Jason had been, in fact, been sleeping in a bed, sans sheets, for two days. Jason could almost feel the animosity emitting off of Dick, so he kept to himself, and tried to keep out of the older boy’s way. Alfred had told him, during one of their tutoring sessions, that Dick’s attitude was not so much due to Jason’s presence in the house, and more a consequence of Miss Wayne’s dealings of recent. Dick, at the cusp of his fourteenth birthday, had started acting out, against the Bat’s orders, and therefore, had been grounded from their nightly “flights” around Gotham. 

Jason’s childhood had been lined with risk and instability, therefore, it was unnatural for him to sleep an entire night through without waking up in the dead of night to some obscure sound far below him: this is what had led him to stay awake that night, watching the world wash away. He knew for a fact that Miss Wayne wasn’t in the house; as much as he hated to admit it, he feared the thunder, and in a moment of sheer weakness, he had attempted to go to her, without success. Her bedroom had been empty, cold, and undisturbed. Alfred and Dick were no-goes, for obvious reasons. So, Jason found himself back in his room, sitting on the cold hard floor, waiting. Waiting for the thunder to stop, maybe? Waiting for Miss Wayne to return, maybe? Or maybe, waiting for this joke called his life to end. His hands shivered at the cold, the water’s weight levitating off of the windows. 

Lightening split the sky and Jason shook: his eyes glazed over almost immediately. He shied away from the window, but noticed something down in the garden, a flash of color. It was early in the new day, a little after one: anyone and anything would be hiding from the rain. The logical conclusion was Batwoman, but Batwoman didn’t wear color: Miss Wayne, even in her daylight life, preserved herself in the comforting color of black. Jason peeked over the edge of the window, his knees rubbing against the hardwood floors. Two figures stood in the rain, with heads dipped downward. Jason recognized one as Miss Wayne, her black suit muted to conform to the colors of the night, but her companion, he did not recognize. A man, much taller than the Bat, stood askew, shoulders curled inward: his bright blue and red suit had been what had glimpsed Jason’s eye initially. Miss Wayne’s hand had lay on his shoulder, a light touch, until it had slowly ghosted its way up two his face: the man’s face had risen, his apparent sorrow faltering for a moment to break a sad smile at the Bat. Jason’s face burned with guilt: he knew he shouldn’t be watching, especially with such intentness, as this was a private moment and he was the interloper. He continued to watch: the man in blue finally broke away, stepping back a few feet before he disappeared right before Jason’s young eyes. He was gone. He had disappeared into thin air. Jason watched as Miss Wayne turned around, but first stared seemingly right at him. Jason hissed and dropped below the window sill, hoping Miss Wayne’s hearing wasn’t as strong as an actual bat. He made a break for the bed, hiding underneath the covers, trying to even out his breathing. He mistakenly believed that he could fool Gotham’s most hardy vigilante.

“You know it’s rude to spy, child?” Her voice hit him, before he felt the warmth of her hand resting on his back. He stilled for a moment before peeking his eyes up over the white sheets. Even in her rain drenched state, Ruth Wayne was one of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his short life. Her black locks, licked with droplets of water, cascaded down her back and framed her square face; her eyes, like the ocean’s false blue, pulsated with unruly power, but dainty finesse. Her covers were ever complete by her masterful manipulation of both. Long lashes fell upon her defined cheeks, full, but rarely upturned for a smile: her mouth remained in stone, her lips, like an orange’s curve. She smelled like salt and day, a scent Jason recognized to be unique Wayne mansion itself. 

“I wasn’t spying, Miss Wayne. To spy, it wouldn’t have to be my business…but this was my business, so it wasn’t spying.” Jason said, in a quiet voice, close to that of a mouse. Miss Wayne tossed her head to the side, pretending to ponder the matter with her nose turned up at the ceiling. She tapped her finger against her cheek in play.

“I guess that’ll pass for a reasonable explanation, for right now. But, young man, the real question I should be asking you is why you’re awake at such an hour?” She said calmly: she rubbed his back in soothing circles, and Jason felt himself relax into the bed, the claws of sleep lurking at the edges of his mind. In his toddling, his mother had never truly offered her comfort to his fear of the storm; she had been much more in tune to the drugs, the highs, and the lows that replaced her reality. But there had been times, when she was lucid, that he remembers her laying him down onto the bed, holding him close, and singing to him, a lark in a cage. The times had been too far, and too in-between. “Is it the rain? Does the howling scare you?”

Jason Todd watched Ruth Wayne from under heavy eyes, but nodded his head anyway, fearing the loss of his relief, rather than the loss of his false-cockiness. Ruth stared at him for a moment before whispering to him, “You want to hear a secret? But you have to keep it, alright Jason?”

Again, a nod. 

“Well, when I was younger, and before I truly had a grasp of danger outside of this manor, I had an unnatural fear of bats.” Jason blinked slowly, the facts registering in his mind at a sluggish rate, sleep-binded: Miss Wayne’s hand had stopped circling, and was now just resting on his back. “That may seem silly now, considering who I am, but, as a young child, the notion that a small, flying, bloodsucking rodent could just swoop down one day and torment me, well, it frightened me beyond belief. My parents and Alfred tried to convince me that there was nothing to fear, that bats were just ordinary creatures with their own fears, but I could never accept their advice, because they had never known. They had never felt the fear eat them alive. From bats, at least.”

Miss Wayne took a pause, a lock of hair brushed out of Jason’s face, a feather light touch upon his forehead. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, rather, she was looking through him. “It was not until later, until after the death of my parents that I came to the conclusion that I was no longer afraid of bats; while in its place, more reasonable fears bloomed, I learned that no fear is truly unfounded. Fear exists to warn us of our follies, to protect us from our faults, and while there is a great good in fear, it impairs our abilities to succeed. There is only learning to master it: learning how to use your fear as a pushing force, rather than a pulling force, and allowing yourself to supersede the expectations that have been put upon you, by you.” 

A spark lit up the sky and Jason retreated back underneath the covers, his safe haven from harm and fear. He could feel Miss Wayne recede from the bed, her warm hand’s imprint meeting the cold air of the room: he panicked, the image of his overdosed mother flashing against his clutched eyes, her limp, cold, tragic body plastered against the screen windows, howling with wind. Jason let out a lone sniff, just in time to hear the sound of soft creaking, the sound of wood against wood, a piece of furniture being ushered across the floorboards of his room. Ruth Wayne pulled up a large, green, velveteen armchair, across from Jason’s bed, and just as her had hand had left Jason, it returned once more, this time resting upon his own hand. “For now Jason, you do not need to worry, I’ll wait with you tonight, and every other night it rains, until you are ready to confront it on your own.” 

Jason lay in silence as he let sleep spirit him away; he did not fear the night, nor did he fear the loneliness that came with the night. In Crime Alley, the word trust had been synonymous with death. But here, here was different; yes, he had to deal with the consequences of an antagonizing older brother figure, but his revelation was solid. He trusted Ruth Wayne because he knew he could trust her. She wasn’t necessarily the most caring or kind person, stonewalling the way to her true thoughts, but her actions were sincere: Jason didn’t have a doubt in his mind that the woman known as the Bat, that Ruth Wayne wouldn’t leave by the morning. “Thank you, Miss Wayne.” 

“Go to sleep, Jason.”


	3. Steel

Jason’s virgin experience with death had been long previous to the demise of his own respective parents. He remembered the scent of blood clogging his pores, the iron tinted stank that lingered on the corner days after the body had been taken away by the reluctant police. Nark. The whispers had filled the silence, and between the lines, Jason had understood why that man had to die, why they put a gun to his head, why they shattered his skull, and why they blew his brains into the next decade. Jason was quickly ushered inside by his then-mother, but the streets did not lie, and the invisible man’s eyes had pointed into the direction of God. As if he was watching for judgement. Now, hidden between flocks of blacks and whites, watching Miss Wayne, Jason’s discomfort fortified itself. 

His suit was ruffled slightly in the front and his young shoulders were tight, as the soft fabric of the blue blazer was stretched painfully across: the sleeves of his dress shirt were too long, and the excess hung over his hands. His shoes…well, Jason had never seen such shiny, black shoes in his life. Dick’s hand-me-downs had somewhat done the trick: they had turned a street kid, into juvenile delinquent. The ensemble protested sheepishly as he slid beneath a vacant table, feeling claustrophobic in his own sense. The people, the rich, they flittered about like butterflies, in their satin gowns, and custom suits: gorgeous, hungry, and short-lived. Their inherent carelessness masked their ruthlessness: the chilling realization that, Jason’s presumptions about an easy life had been skewed. They walked around with porcelain masks, teeth clenched underneath all of the white, making the motivations of the working-class look like blunted arrows. Jason sighed and nibbled at the plate of appetizers he had snatched from the waiters. While Miss Wayne had intended for this to be a debut party, an introduction of her newest ward to high society, barely anybody had truly taken note to Jason. Miss Wayne had ushered him to shake hands with some of her business partners, their praises about how strapping he looked, soon superseded by more intellectual matters. Jason had liked it this way: in lieu of his crippling shyness and anxiety towards large crowds, he had no actual working knowledge of social etiquette. Dick Grayson, on the other hand, was well versed in the act of charisma, and was currently, no doubt, flirting with the whole group of adolescent girls who surrounded him like lemmings. 

“Well, what do we have here?” Jason had all but three seconds to flinch, and then, steel himself, before his curtain of solitude was raised, and he was forced to stare eye to eye with a pair of rather ugly, brown penny loafers. They were scuffed and cracked from longtime use: Jason’s eyebrow climbed as he wondered, contemplated who would have dared to wear such casual clothing to one of billionaire-philanthropist Ruth Wayne’s parties. A pair of equally ugly, black, square glasses appeared. They were accompanied by a man with brown hair, a square jaw, and eyes so light that they reminded Jason of clear-cut diamonds: the intruder smiled jovially, almost idiotically at Jason, as if he had found some kind of prize, “You must be Jason.” 

“Who the hell are you?” Jason hissed out, pulling his shoulders forward to hide his bounty from the interloper. The man’s smile seemed to go on for miles, so when his grin grew with a short, tempered laugh, Jason suspected some kind of sorcery at work: this creature was definitely not a Gothamite. 

“I’m a friend of your Ma’s.” 

“Miss Wayne ain’t my momma. She is my guardian.” Jason grumbled out, putting emphasis on the word guardian to make a clear distinction to the dim-witted man, who probably surmised that Jason was like any other foster child, who clung to the hips of his or her quasi-parents, until he or she got thrown back out onto the streets. Jason was definitely not that. 

“Oh, is that right?” The intruder said to Jason, his lips still curved in the shape of a smirk: the man was definitely not a Gothamite. “I wonder what Ruth would say if she heard that?” 

“Wonder what I would say, if I heard what?” The money-filled voice of Ruth Wayne chimed in the background, accompanied by the bell-like ringing that was her laugh. Her deep, silky voice made the man glimpse up, making it obvious to Jason that his peaceful, hidden sanctuary was not only disrupted, but forever disturbed. He sighed shyly, as he poked his head out from underneath the covered table, to the given gasp of his parent. His cheeks reddened quickly, until he had the completion of an apple. “Jason-? What are you doing under the table? Oh…hon, come out from under there immediately, and apologize.” 

Jason hurriedly climbed his way out from under the mahogany table, dusting off his awkward ensemble as he went: he refused to meet his mistress’ eyes. Her dress, the object of his displaced attention, was the color of dew, a light, pale blue that made Jason slightly nauseous when he looked at it, as it sparkled dimly, and changed color with the night. It was in direct contrast with her honeyed skin, in direct contrast with the golden accessories she felt were necessary to brand herself as Gotham’s most eligible bachelorette. It fell over the back of her lusty body in ocean’s waves, but the front was pinned tightly to her torso, a plunging neckline capturing her more…physically appealing aspects. Around her neck hung a rope of pearls, a line of light to betray the blackness that she held in her heart. Without looking, Jason knew that she outshined everybody in the room, especially her current companion. Jason hated this side of the Bat, and hated that even with a silver stoked voice, her allegations were still true. Jason bowed his head, and choked out an apology, a feeling of shame washing over his body. His eyes felt moist. 

A soft hand fell into his hair with a ruffle, and he felt a man’s voice, the man’s voice humming out soothing words in his chest, “It’s alright, son.” 

Almost immediately, Miss Wayne quietly snapped backed, her golden voice morphing into the Bat’s commanding one, “It is definitely not alright, Clark. He needs to learn how to act, he needs to know how to fit into society.” 

The man’s deep voice reentered, slightly chastising, “Jesus, Ruth, this isn’t one of your martyr missions. He’s only…” The man paused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement: he glimpsed at Jason. 

“I’m eight.” 

“Thank you. He’s only eight, for Pete’s sake, you have to let him be kid sometimes!” The man let out with an exasperated tone. Jason’s interloper was suddenly his ally, in lieu of how badly dressed he was. Admittedly, the man had an impressive build, and he towered far above Miss Wayne’s height, which in itself, was an impressive feet. His repetitively brown sweater vest, which made Jason internally cringe at, was surmounted by a blue blazer, much like Jason’ own, except it fit properly on the man, and had many less wrinkles. Miss Wayne’s eyes were trained on the man named ‘Clark’, flashing with subtle anger and something else, hidden. 

“As if I am going to take parenting lessons from you, Clark Kent. Maybe you’ll have the validity to make me listen to you when you have fathered a child of your own.” The reaction from the man was almost immediate, a deep flush crossing his face, and his shoulder’s slouching slightly: the tiny, defined muscles in his jaw were flexing rapidly. Jason felt uncomfortable, caught in a conflict that had started with him, but was definitely not about to end with him. Miss Wayne was pressed flush against the man, the line of her body mirroring that of his torso: if anybody had been looking in on the scene, it would have looked as if the woman was seducing the poor man. Successfully too. The arm which wasn’t resting on Jason’s head was now wrapped tightly around the Bat’s midsection. They stared at each other intently for a few moments, the animosity between the two apparent to nobody. Finally, the man sighed and dropped his head, a win for Ruth Wayne. 

“Jason, I’d like you to meet Mr. Clark Kent. He’s a reporter, a newscaster for The Daily Planet, in Metropolis. He has been my close…friend for years.” She said, her eyes betraying her words. The steel escaped her lips, and Jason shuddered for a moment, glad that for once, he was not the one under her curses. Mr. Kent seemed unaffected, though. 

“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Jason. Formally, that is. I’ve already heard much about your rambunctiousness from Ruth here.” He smiled amicably, a well-rounded, happy-go-luck smirk falling back onto his person. They shook hands: Jason thought that the handshake was rather weak, in regards to the hulking man before him. It was almost deceivingly meek, if he could put it any other way, as if the character before him was holding back. Ruth Wayne laughed a clipped, nasally, chortle before running her hand down Mr. Kent’s front, in a way some might find sensual, but what Jason saw as possessive. She then disengaged herself, and gave a little wink to Jason. A wink that sent a shiver down his spine. 

“Madame Ruth, while I do understand that this is meant to be a party for his debut, I do believe it is quite a bit past Master Jason’s bedtime.” Jason almost sighed in relief as the always ready Alfred Pennyworth, almost materialized next to the mistress of the mansion. And while Jason wasn’t necessarily positive about the fact, he was mighty sure that Alfred’s appearance was not by accident: apparently he had also gotten a hold of the threatening aura that had existed between the Bat and her newest conquest, so he had come to bail Jason out. Happily, Jason obliged to give out a half-hearted yawn.

“I think Alfred’s right, Miss Wayne. I mean, all this meetin’ and greetin’…I’m so tired.” Jason didn’t honestly know what to say besides his mewl, the half-hearted truth: he doubted that the Bat wouldn’t pick up on any of the lies he spewed. 

“That’s alright, hon. Go to sleep; I’ll be up in a bit.” Jason hadn’t been expecting it, but before he knew what was happening, Miss Wayne had picked him and kissed him on top of the head, in blatant sight of the man called Clark Kent. She held Jason in her warm arms, and coddled him like a small child, before she looked straight into the reporter’s eyes and crooned out, in the sweetest voice she could manage, “And you, Clark, shouldn’t you be getting home to Lois? I’m sure she’s worried sick: it isn’t like a boy-scout to break curfew.”

Jason hadn’t seen the man sulk off, but from the tone of Miss Wayne’s victorious voice, he knew that the man had, in fact, done so. Jason had been a bargaining chip, which, in a rigged game, Ruth Wayne had won. Later that night, in his bed, hugged so tightly by the soft covers, Jason had stared up at the shadows that painted his walls, and watched as they had morphed into different shapes with the pressing lights outside. Different colors, different collages, different personas, but all inherently the same: they were all shadows. Jason whispered to himself the name of the man who had been killed all those years ago, a sin, for sure, to the street kid Jason, who was born in Crime Alley, and who would surely die in Crime Alley. But his shadow whispered back even louder than those devils, and told him tales of greatness, of those who betrayed their fate. 

When Jason had crept out in the dead of night, to rush himself to the restroom, the lone shadow of Ruth Wayne had accompanied the empty, inky halls of Wayne Manor. Her silhouette was only a figure of blackness. 

“If only stars could speak…”


End file.
